


Lackadaisy Triad

by handful_ofdust



Category: Lackadaisy
Genre: Mildly Dubious Consent, Multi, Period-Typical Anti-Semitism, Recreational Drug Use, Untranslated Yiddish and Cajun Dialogue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-24
Updated: 2014-09-24
Packaged: 2018-02-18 16:32:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2355122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/handful_ofdust/pseuds/handful_ofdust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Serafine and Nico Savoy are intrigued by their new partner. This is their idea of bonding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It's not that the Savoys have no work ethic, so much, as that they have no ethics at all, of any kind. And that they only want to work hard at things which amuse or arouse them, possibly both at the same time, though perhaps that's another issue entirely rather than a sub-section of the original complaint.

  
Mordecai Heller can see them looking at each other now, trading raised eyebrows and quirked lips, while he meticulously disassembles, cleans and oils first one gun, then the other, in the back-seat of their mutual ride. There's something clicking every time he cocks the slide and it's driving him crazy, particularly because it's not as though he doesn't go through this same entire routine at home every night, to usually good effect. Must be this swampy riverside air.

  
“T'ink you got enough armament bag dere, or you wanna maybe stop an' buy some more, 'fore we make our rendezvous?” Nico calls out in his execrable—literally creole, in the word's truest sense—version of English, attempting to catch Mordecai's eye in the rear-view mirror. “Mais, I ask 'cause you look lak like you goin' _vraiement a la guerre,_ and dis jus' mos-ways a li'l milk-run, at bes'.”

  
Serafine shakes her head, indulgently. “Naw, be-be, dat jus' his way, fo' sho— _les Juives,_ ilz ont boo-koo de caution, an' fo' _bonne raison._ Ain't dat right, peekon?”

  
Mordecai keeps his eyes on his tools, resisting the urge to frown 'til they cross, and lets a few moments elapse. Then asks, snidely: “Oh, were you addressing that to me? I'm sorry, I only speak English.”

  
“Ha! Now, we know dat ain't true, 'cause we hear you swearin' away in dat Germanese chit-chat o'yours jus' de other night, when you got to put yourself out runnin' down dat las' boy. You was annoy, yeah!”

  
“Lak always,” Nico puts in, giving a lazy shrug. “But what you mean, cher—sayin' my sister ain't good enough to talk wit' you, jus' 'cause she from de bayou?”

  
Mordecai flushes slightly, which annoys him more. “I simply don't know why we have to _talk_ at all.”

  
“Well, talk ain't all dat, fo' sho. Mais, bet you talk plenty wit' dat ol' Russia man of yours, bag in de day.”

  
“Yeah, Asa Sweet tell us already how you got yo'self a type, cher. Two type, en fait: A big man, an' a li'l woman.”

  
Mordecai takes yet another moment to deal with this, just one; not too long, though. Not long enough to put them on their guard. Because this, as he's thought before—several times, thus far, under several different-yet-similar sets of circumstances—is the innate problem with working with two partners, instead of one: In the end, no matter how extensive his calculations, he's fairly sure he could shoot _one_ of them before they had time to respond, but not both.

  
“Asa Sweet,” he says, at last, “ _likes_ to talk, as you may have noticed, most often about things he has no right to. Viktor Vasko and I are no longer associated, as my presence here proves, while these rumours about me and Mrs May...” He shakes his head, hissing a bit, through his tongue. “The very idea that I would betray my employer's trust that way, or any other; distasteful. Intensely so.”

  
Serafine doesn't seem too impressed by what she no doubt considers his particular brand of histrionics. “No need to take on, cher; we don't t'ink you romance de lady, even _delicieuse_ lak she be—she was married bag den, just lak you say. An' short time as we know you so far, we already see you ain't dat sort.”

  
Nico nods. “Um-hum. Ol' Russia man, dough...dat's all over town, 'case you wonder. Everybody know. Cat _good_ an' outta de bag, on dat one.”

  
At this point, however, sheer annoyance thrusts Mordecai past some internal point of no return, rendering his tongue suddenly far more free than he usually allows for; before he can stop himself, he's already snapped back: “Point one: Viktor is Slovak, not Russian, and point two: he's perhaps ten years older than me at _most_...than all of us, I suppose. He fought in the War, which makes him damaged, not senile, much as he may occasionally act like the latter. As for the rest, well...” Here he slows, finally able to moderate himself, albeit with some effort. “On the whole, I don't care to know what other people think they 'know' about me, or anyone; I do my job, and trust them to get out of my way, if they have the sense God gave a goat. Outside of direct orders, meanwhile, my private business is just that—mine. Private.”

  
Nico laughs at all that, however, not mocking as such—Mordecai could forget that, if not forgive it, but no: This is something different, something...sympathetic. Almost _affectionate_ , the presumptuous overgrown bruiser.

  
“Oh, we get dat, yeah,” he says, looking uncomfortably like he's contemplating risking his life by chucking Mordecai under the chin, the way you jolly a five-year-old out of some _mood._ “You a verrry private person, peekon. Don't love nothin' or _no_ body, nohow.”

  
“That's—a _highly_ presumptuous statement, to say the least—”

  
“Eh, maybe so,” Serafine agrees, breezily. “But we don' mean no disrespect, no. We much de same way, mostly.”

  
“ _Mais oui, c'est vrai, ca._ 'Cept 'bout each other.”

  
Whereupon, like every other night, they exchange these moony, inappropriate little smiles, all but feeling each other up with their eyes. It's very...provoking? (No, not that. Not to him, at least, and probably not in the way they intend it to be—though he can certainly see how others might find it off-putting, which may, in the final analysis, be the actual point of this strange little exercise in behavioural mechanics, anyhow.)

  
And: “By de by,” Serafine says, apropos of absolutely nothing, “peekon, it mean thorn, case you wonderin'. A li'l nick-name we made up, 'cause of you so hard, an' sharp, an' prickly.”

  
“ _Comme un verge du chat,_ ” Nico puts in, helpfully, and Mordecai shudders—more at the fact they'd choose to use the image than the image itself, but it does seem to make them snicker, nonetheless. (They can't possibly think him squeamish, though, can they? Fastidious, perhaps; he'll own up to that, gladly. But squeamish? Not after what they've seen him do. Then again, however...)

  
...then _again,_ as with Viktor, he suspects he may have well been a trifle quick to form the belief that the Savoys aren't all that bright—and that, like history repeating, this may well come back to bite him if he doesn't start to watch himself far more closely around them, in the very near future.

  
So: “Very inventive,” is all he says, at last. “Now, if you please—might there perhaps be something you two would like to ask me that _doesn't_ involve my past, just for a change of subject?”

  
In return, Serafine cracks a fresh new version of almost the same smile, this time aimed his way and turned up even higher, dirty-hot as a gentleman's club footlight. And drawls, laying back, hand drifting up to toy with a spit-curl—

  
“Wellll...now you come to mention, cher...”

  
“Sera an' me, we t'ink you de whitest boy we _ever_ did see...white down to yo' drawz, en fait.”

  
“It's cute, is what it is. Give us an ahnvee.”

  
Mordecai frowns. “A...what, now?”

  
“Aw, don' be so haunt, now—it mean _hunger_ yeah, dat's 'bout right: You fine, got to know it. Got dem green eyes, dem pretty clothes; good-lookin', even if you all de time boude'. Dress jus' nice enough so's to make a person wanna mess you up.”

  
( _Dat ol' Russia man, fo' example._ )

  
“Uh-huh. Blush nice too, when you t'ink nobody lookin'.”

  
Mordecai can feel his colour mounting now, as it happens, and tries his best to turn the rapidly down-spiralling conversation (which you _invited,_ idiot, don't forget that) almost anywhere else, before he finds himself well and truly mortified.

  
“Yes, well...” he says, vaguely, at last. “I believe there are some down here who'd debate you on whether or not a Jew qualifies as 'white'.”

  
“Aw, we don' care 'bout dat, peekon—we Cajun, us. Don't make us _no_ mind where you wanna kneel down, 'long as you do it nearby.”

  
And what do you say to that, exactly? Even if you could parse the proper meaning out of such a ridiculous polyglot mish-mash, you'd still have to reckon with the foolishness, the lack of professionalism. Or does all this talk about Viktor mean they've simply decided he's good for sleeping with anyone he works with? The sort of people who'll lie about “having” to kill a man with a hatchet, then laugh about it as though it were some sort of hazing, a mere _prank_ —what can you expect from people like this?

  
_Then again,_ he thinks, _I suppose it_ might _shut them up, if only for a relatively short amount of time. And perhaps they wouldn't expect me to try and make jokes with them afterwards, if it went_ particularly _well for all concerned..._

  
(Oh yes, Mordecai. Because you're _such_ a Valentino.)

  
“Mmmm,” is all he can manage, in the interim. To which Serafine replies, leaning close enough over the front passenger-side seat's back that he can practically taste her perfume—

  
“Dat a yes dere, ou non?”

  
Times stretches again, uncontrollably. Until, with some surprise, he hears himself toss back, lightly, as though it's nothing much:

  
“...I'm thinking.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Serafine, Nico,” Asa Sweet tells them, “this is Mister Mordecai Heller, late of the Lackadaisy, and somewhat of a legend 'round these parts; I recently hired him on as night manager here at the Maribel, which means you three are gonna be workin' together. Sour looks aside, he's a veritable wildcat and sure does share y'all's general range of interests, so I reckon you'll all get along like a house under fire, eventually.”

  
Nico shoots her a glance, like: _Oho, bien sur?_ But Sera finds herself still starin' in that white boy's fussy little round specs, tryin' to see just how big his green eyes really are, underneath. He stares back, squinched up and narrow, like he's figurin' where best to put one in her, he wants to take her down on one shot only.

  
 _Look lak a bookkeeper, him,_ Sera thinks, if bookkeepers came with a gun under either arm and murder in their hearts. And turns out he was, too, 'fore ol' Atlas May spotted somethin' more in him. Now every hard man in St. Louis already knows his name; spit when they hear it, then look 'round to make sure he ain't sittin' there quietly somewhere in the back, takin' their coffin-measurements.

  
Serafine Savoy admires a man who can make a reputation for himself doin' what comes naturally, just like her and Nico. Don't hurt too much he's easy on the eyes, too; Sera does like her pretty things, from the clothes she wears and the trinkets she offers her _loas_ to that eat-him-up baby brother of hers, who looks just as damn fine in the half a tux he'll occasionally stand to be fit into for special occasions as he does ringside, hands wrapped and gloves on, in not much more than fightin' trim.

  
But still, it ain't 'till the night with the hatchet she decides she likes Mordecai Heller _that_ way, though, when she looks back on it—the itch-scratchin' way, a little raw and rough, for all his fine clothes and his fancy ways. Just somethin' 'bout a man stripped down and covered in blood, she guesses, 'specially with his garters still on and his shoes all shiny.

  
“Boy ain' like us,” Nico observes, lazily, shadow-boxing a turn or two with himself in the corner. “Ain' like _nobody_ , much, fo' dat matter.”

  
“An' dat'd be de difference,” she tells him, to which he smiles. Replying:

  
“Yeah, fo' sure. Dat's why _I_ like 'im, too.”

  
Asa Sweet tells 'em the story of how Mordecai snuck out to see that old—Slovak—man of his, same one he capped in the knee, the night he left his last job. How he used his own pay to bring the house doc down an' have 'im look the big lug over, stayed the night, then up and leave him flat again next mornin'. Asa thinks it's a funny story 'cause it makes Mordecai look weak, so he tells it in front of him, hoping it'll embarrass him—but the peekon, he don't even seem to notice. Just says: “Yes, very droll. Will that be all? Or were we perhaps going to discuss actual business, at some point?”

  
“Simply struck me strange, son. Y'all ain't havin' second thoughts, are you?”

  
“I'd be a somewhat of a fool to tell you outright, if I was. Wouldn't I?”

  
And here he squares his shoulders, just a touch—sends one hand flicking up towards what turns out to be his pocket-watch, then checks it nice an' slow, watchin' the spark of fear die down in Asa's eyes. Sera and Nico already seen him draw down likewise, plenty of times, out on the job; little man's an artist, faster than spit to pull one out an' pump it, and he don't ever miss but once.

  
“Whatever I choose to do for Viktor Vasko is my own affair, Mister Sweet,” Mordecai says, finally. “For, with, to—it makes no difference, and has absolutely no bearing on the many and various things I've already committed to doing for _you._ And that would be because not only do I no longer work with him, but he doesn't pay me, either, thus removing any lingering hint of the professional element from the equation entirely. You can either choose to believe I take that distinction seriously or not, as suits your fancy.”

  
And that's how it's left.

  
The lesson Sera and Nico learn from this exchange is the same one Asa Sweet probably never will: Mordecai Heller ain't no wind-up toy, mechanical though he may sometime seem. Got still waters in him, runnin' so deep even he don't seem to know for sure where they go to. An' better yet, if you get him to where he considers you his friend—though Sera's don't really know if he'd even put it that way to himself, maybe just: _A person I owe something_ , or _somebody who did me right instead of wrong, for once_ , then...he'll be loyal, in his own cold fashion. Ain't too like to let it go entirely, at any rate.

  
( _Dat one lucky-ass ol' Slovak man, right dere,_ Sera thinks. Knowing, in her heart, that Viktor Vasko's probably very well aware of that fact, if he thinks of it at all.)

  
So:

  
“...I'm thinking,” Mordecai says, and then don't say no more. Not 'till the night's shootin's over, that is, and they're all home safe back at the Maribel, with its soft-carpeted floors and its fancy-monogrammed whorehouse wallpaper. That's when he gets a stranger look than usual on his face—could be haughty, could be crafty, could be he's tryin' to talk himself into somethin', and ain't yet stumbled on just the right way to do it—and pulls up to full height, tellin' her and Nico: “That idea of yours, the one you advanced earlier...”

  
“Yeah, we remember, peekon. Kinda hard to forget.”

  
“Fo' you too, it look lak.”

  
“Yes, well...I suppose...I might be amenable. Perhaps. Under the right circumstances.”

  
Which is pretty good, but not quite good enough, for their purposes. So Nico leans back on the wall, makin' himself extra-big, and puts out one hip, edgin' Mordecai just that little bit towards where Sera can make like she's threatenin' to lay herself up against him in turn, now he ain't got nowhere to go. Ooh, and here comes that _blush_ again, or the start of it; if the man had a tail, it'd be straight out an' twice its normal size, with his ears back and all his whiskers quiverin'.

  
“Do you mind?” He demands. “I said 'might'. I said 'circumstances'.”

  
“Uh huh. But, see—we already got all the circumstance we need right here, cher. 'Sides, I get de feelin' we let you t'ink it over all too much longer, you jus' gonna have a conniption fit right here in de hall.”

  
“Hmp. Is this how you net all your bed-partners—trap them like lobsters? It's not very...civilized.”

  
Sera laughs. “Whoo, prickly-prickly, peekon, jus' lag de name. We gotta smooth you down some, 'fore we get all de way to work.”

  
“Don' hafta be too scare, dough, you,” Nico assures him. “We gentle, when we wanna be. Ain' gon' be all dat bad.”

  
And she guesses Mordecai wasn't really in full bristle before, 'cause he sure is bristlin' now, like he don't know whether to snarl or sputter. “Oh, _seriously_. Do I in any way seem as though I'm _afraid,_ to you?”

  
_Oh, white boy. You GOT to be kiddin'._

  
“Somewhat, yeah,” Sera says, finally, trying not to laugh again—poor thing does need to keep a little bit of his dignity, if only to stave off a stroke. “But you sure hidin' it well, fo' all dat.”

  
Nico nods. And adds, blithely: “But it don't matter none, anyhow...'cause dat's what de reefer good fo'.”

  
Mordecai blinks, blankly. “The what?”

  
“Oh, peekon. You in fo' one _grand surprise_ , yeah.”


	3. Chapter 3

_At least it's not alcohol,_ Mordecai thinks, when they offer him the first hit. Not that he's any more used to this, of course; it's always seemed prudent to him to stay away from intoxicants of all sorts, merely on principle. Especially considering their usual effects. But...this is something you _smoke_ , not something you _drink_. How bad can it be?

  
( _Oy_. Talk about a stupid, foolish, utterly misguided question.)

  
Soon enough, might be—only fifteen minutes later, might be half an hour, he's somehow managed to end up half-on, half-off of one of the beds in that unoccupied suite Asa Sweet reserved for the Savoys when they first began working for him, still mainly dressed (guns stowed elsewhere, which is just as well) and _rumpled_ all to hell and back, with both of them half-naked and stroking him all up and down just to watch him jump without even the vaguest concession to _his_ likes or dislikes, as though he's some show-dog they're grooming, or it's some sort of competition. He thinks his spectacles are still on, but it's hard to tell; he just keeps on studying his hands and laughing, because everything's so fascinating, so endlessly amusing. And it all feels so _good_.

  
When Serafine sticks her tongue in his mouth, however, it still does take him off-guard; he's already bitten her before he quite knows what he's doing, and Nico is pulling him off by his hair. At which point he twists and tries to snap at him as well, as though he's forgotten how to throw a punch, and Nico gets a bicep under each arm, exerting shamefully little effort to hold him so fast he can struggle all he likes but never break free. 'Till eventually he's forced to collapse back onto Nico's chest, sweaty and panting, a veritable one-man educational illustration of why certain Jews should neither drink, nor smoke, nor allow themselves to be talked into shenanigans with Cajuns whose ideas about appropriate behaviour are—slippery, to say the least.

  
Luckily, Serafine doesn't seem to hold a grudge. Simply laughs long and loud, licking away her own blood, and exclaims: “ _Whooo,_ now! Mos' people, they get a li'l mellow when they high, you know...but you, you jus' all the time gotta be contrary.”

  
Mordecai shakes his head, which proves to be a mistake, seeing how fast the room starts spinning; swallows instead, waiting for it to stop, and grits out, voice twice as low as normal: “Let—me—go.”

  
But: “Naw, cher,” Nico replies, pulling him closer. “Don' t'ink so; not 'till you calm down a touch, at least. Oh, you a _firecracker_ , all right, Mister Heller! Lak a bit'a tussle too, huh, 'fore you get to it? Now, why dat don' surprise me.”

  
He takes a gulping breath, straining to slow his heart. “And...you two don't?” He manages, to which they both laugh again, like it's the funniest thing they've heard all year.

  
“Well,” Serafine admits, “you got us dere.”

  
“Um-hum. But what I lak mos', me, is makin' my boy feel good—boy _or_ girl, ain' no never-mind when I'm givin' singin' lessons. You ever had dat, peekon?”

  
“Uh...singing lessons? Or boy or girl?”

  
“Bot', _mais oui_.”

  
“...once or twice, yes. Why?”

  
To which Serafine grins, teeth maybe a little more sharp than you want to see at this distance, not to mention this angle. And purrs back, right in his ear—so close he can feel her breath inside, a phantom kiss—

  
“Well...dat'd be 'cause you 'bout to again, peekon, if so. Again _an'_ again, maybe, de first go-'round come off well.”

  
And: If it sounds like a threat, Mordecai's long since learned, it probably is. But, God knows...he's been threatened with far worse, over the years.

  
 _Jus' lie back an' enjoy youself, peekon,_ somebody seems to tell him, though he can't for the life of him figure out who.

  
Here time blurs just a little bit, and when he resurfaces, he's helping Serafine (Sera _, damn! Look what we doin' here, Mor-de-cai; don' have to be all_ too _formal anymore, us._ ) off with her corselet, garter-belt and step-ins, and she's goggling just a bit at his efficiency. Ridiculous, really, since whatever he does, no matter what, he tries his level best to do well; then again, the mysteries of feminine undergarments are no mysteries at all, to him—he's been around them since he was born, either those who wore them or those who made them (or both). But Sera's intrigued, and says so.

  
“I have two sisters,” he tells her, rolling down one stocking. Then adds, hastily: “Not that'd I'd ever—” But stops there, frozen between impulses, uncertain. Is he really about to insult them, utterly unintentionally, just by claiming he _hasn't_ had incestuous relations?

  
Nico guffaws, throwing back his head. “Oh _naw,_ peekon! We ain' _dat_ odd.”

  
“Jus' lak to share, is all,” Sera chimes in, nodding, breasts shifting like shook fruit. “Not dat it don' happen, on de bayou.”

  
“An' not dat she ain' worth it, either. But—”

  
“No, no, I understand, entirely. I think.”

  
He stiffens a bit—literally and figuratively—when Nico slides his big, scar-knuckled boxer's hand down to unbutton both of Mordecai's flies, but Sera draws him closer, folds him to that oh-so-inviting cleavage of hers, and he loses himself rooting around in there 'till he's forced to rear back, because his pince-nez are now so smeared he can barely see what he's doing. Realizing his difficult, Nico “helpfully” plucks them away, throws them casually onto the nightstand, and Mordecai winces at the way they bounce. At the same time, however, he feels himself spring free, head making juicy contact with his own belly—what happened to his undershirt? He can't remember, but trusts it's found a home, maybe over with Sera's blouse and skirt or Nico's trousers—and falls back a bit further, craving more sensation, more, more. From anyone who's interested in giving it.

  
Sera hastens to help out, then stops to admire him for a moment, which is when he abruptly realizes she very probably hasn't ever—unlike Viktor, strangely enough—seen anyone who's been circumcised before. “Oh, so pretty, yeah! Look at dat head—it blushin' too, twice as deep. Lak a little heart.”

  
Nico, equally fascinated: “Don' dat hurt, dough?”

  
“It was a long time ago. They do it when you're a baby.”

  
“Hmmm, cruel.” Sera gives it a long pull and watches him shiver, breath hitching, lip caught between his teeth, and smiles at the way that gets him weeping all the harder. “An' how 'bout now?”

  
“That...doesn't _hurt_ , no, not exactly. Not...per se.”

  
A dark smile. “Guess I better try harder, den.”

  
More moments lost, this time a bit more regretfully; he has startling flashes of Sera working herself fully down onto him for perhaps five painfully glorious strokes before pulling away again and fanning herself with her other hand busy between her thighs, whispering: _Nothin' personal, I jus' don't want no p'tit, me...not yet, anyhow._ And then, when he gives an inarticulate snarl of frustration, sliding her whole clever body 'round so she can take him in her mouth—a secret _hush up, you big baby,_ vibrating into the prickling skin of his balls, as she sets in to clean all traces of herself from his length with unbearably slow, expert licks. While he, in return, cups her ass and splays her stickily wide, digging in tongue-first, drawing a highly satisfying roster of squeals and cries. God knows what he'll look like the morning after, but right now, he's more than willing to (temporarily) suspend his personal strictures against _mess_ , if this is the result.

  
Where's Nico during all this, meanwhile? Mordecai has no clear idea, though he knows he later ends up taking the very opposite position from the one he'd initially anticipated spending this evening in—rutting into Nico from behind with Sera's soothing hand between his shoulderblades, and Nico twisted just enough so he can nip and suck at Mordecai's mouth, in between encouraging sweet-talk: _Oh yeah, peekon, dat de way. Yeah, right dere, you_ jus' _de right size fo' me, ooh la! Feel lak singin' yet?_

  
Well, yes: A bit. More than, actually.

  
And later still, babbling away while the two of them work on him at once and hearing himself unfiltered, with no way to stop his own ridiculous case of not-really-drunken blabbermouth: “No, don't do that, I don't like that. Or that...that's all right, though. You can do that again...again, yes...one more time, maybe. No, don't stop...Oh God, I'm still talking, why am I _talking?_ I've _got_ to stop talking!”

  
“Aw, don' worry youself, dawlin'; talk all you want, don't make no difference. 'Cause mebbe we can' help wit' dat, but we still gon' have _some_ fun, yeah. _Laissez les bon temps roulez!_ ”

  
 _Bist meshugeh?_ Mordecai thinks, meanwhile, surfacing momentarily from the Savoys' tidal down-pull. But again, it strikes him that this is a stupid question, much like all his questions, tonight; at least he can't really form the capacity for rational speech, anymore.

  
The morning sees them all piled in a heap, with Mordecai not quite on bottom, but feeling as though he's spent the bulk of his time there. Every part of him aches, even his hair, which Sera is currently casually ruffling in a horribly intimate way. Announcing, as she does: “Dat work out pretty good fo' all concern, I t'ink.”

  
“Mmmm,” is all Mordecai can think to say, by way of reply. Which makes Nico rumble one last laugh, and ask—

  
“Ain' gon' be odd wit' us from now on, is you?” A pause. “Mais, listen to me—who I'm talkin' to, here? Fo'get I even ask.”

  
_No odder than usual, I suppose. By your standards, I mean._

  
Mordecai thinks about it for a while, then says, carefully: “I...see no reason this has to affect our professional relationship, no, unless you two make it. And considering the stakes, I certainly don't see why you _would_.”

  
They look at each other, then back at him, clearly projecting: _Bes' you can do, huh?_ And he just stares back, raising both eyebrows: They knew what he was like beforehand, after all. Really, if the results of their endeavours disappoint them, they have no one to blame but themselves.  
But the Savoys don't seem all _too_ disappointed, at that. At least, Sera's next question doesn't seem to imply they are.

  
“So, den. Wanna do dis again, sometime?”

  
Mordecai closes his eyes, listens to the inside of his head hammering; wonders how many people the Savoys' bath-tub will fit at once or whether he can send his clothes out to be cleaned without tipping off any of the staff as to what's been happening in here, let alone how he's going to get back to his own apartment without Asa Sweet noticing, and twitting him about _this_ as well. The man's—well, not truly insufferable, not just yet. Though that may come, eventually.

  
“...I'm thinking,” he says again, at last. And hears Sera and Nico fall about, as though he's made the funniest joke in all creation.

  
That ought to keep them satisfied a while, if not quiet. And thus...perhaps less a _mistake_ , in retrospect, than a calculated investment. Yes.

  
(That's what he'll tell himself, anyways.)

  
THE END


End file.
